you what—why doesn't Jessica come with me on a cruise around the Mediterranean when this is all over? I have a yacht that gets far too little use just waiting for me, with a full crew. You won't have to do a thing but lie in the sun and relax. What do you say?"
Jessica smiled faintly. "I don't think Peter can get away," she replied, deliberately reminding him that she was ostensibly Peter's date.
Line's face took on an even rosier glow. "Even better," he said gruffly. "You need to be away from everyone. And I'm sure young Kinsey here won't mind if a harmless old man keeps you company."
Jessica controlled an inelegant snort. "I wouldn't call you a harmless old man, Line," she purred, and he preened like a rooster.
"Think you can trust me to take care of your fiancee, Kinsey?" he inquired, leaning past Jessica, his thick hand kneading her thigh. She'd have bruises tomorrow, she thought distantly, and smiled sweetly.
"Oh, I trust you, Line." Peter's expression was bland, charming and suddenly as impregnable as Springer MacDowell's.
"But I still need to go home, Line," she reminded him.
"No problem... I'll run you home," he said expansively, his eyes glistening in anticipation.
She shook her head. "No, thank you, anyway. I only live a few blocks away, and I'd rather walk."
"But-"
"Better take no for an answer, Line," Peter broke in easily. "I've learned that when Jessica makes up her mind there's no changing it."
A sullen expression deepened the flushed face of the businessman opposite her. "Then you'll have to dance with me to make up for it," he said, the sulky tone holding just a trace of a threat.
For just one moment she considered refusing. No one was going to threaten her, no one was going to order her around. She raised her head to sweetly tell him no when she saw Springer watching her, that cynical look on his dark face. "I'd love to," she said abruptly. "Just one, though."
Line practically leaped out of his seat, his hamlike hand heavy on her thin arm. So intent was he on getting her out on the postage-stamp-sized dance floor that he was oblivious as they passed Springer and Elyssa MacDowell. Jessica flashed him a small, sweet smile as she passed, telling him quite effectively to go to hell. Springer returned the smile and leaned back in his chair, that delectable mouth of his curving in malicious enjoyment. And then he was out of sight, hidden as Line yanked her against his bulky frame, and all Jessica could do was savor the memory of his initial anger.
Chapter Ten
The band was playing a sophisticated blues, something slow and just slightly defiant. It suited Jessica's mood perfectly as she allowed Lincoln to press his large frame against hers. She could only be glad he'd pushed her head against his shoulder, out of the line of fire from his Scotch-laden breath. She refused to think about why she hated Scotch. She knew full well, but it made life a great deal easier simply to accept her dislike without delving into its reasons.
His light wool suit was scratchy against her skin, and her legs were pressed so tightly against his that she could barely move. He had taken advantage of the darkness of the dance floor to breathe heavily in her small, delicate ear. She accepted with stoic forebearance when he decided slobbering with his tongue might excite her, she accepted with irritation the steady jarring of his pelvis against hers. He obviously wanted to make certain she knew how aroused he was and perhaps hoped that pressure of hardened flesh would in turn arouse her. He was in for a disappointment, she thought to herself, sighing.
Lincoln took that sigh for a sound of excitement, and he began to slobber across her cheekbone. She could smell the Scotch, but grimly she withstood the fear. She was safe, surrounded by people, nothing could happen to her. The revulsion was beginning to wash over her, combined with a sudden panic that she might push him away and destroy everything she'd worked for.
He'd taken
Jessica smiled faintly. "I don't think Peter can get away," she replied, deliberately reminding him that she was ostensibly Peter's date.
Line's face took on an even rosier glow. "Even better," he said gruffly. "You need to be away from everyone. And I'm sure young Kinsey here won't mind if a harmless old man keeps you company."
Jessica controlled an inelegant snort. "I wouldn't call you a harmless old man, Line," she purred, and he preened like a rooster.
"Think you can trust me to take care of your fiancee, Kinsey?" he inquired, leaning past Jessica, his thick hand kneading her thigh. She'd have bruises tomorrow, she thought distantly, and smiled sweetly.
"Oh, I trust you, Line." Peter's expression was bland, charming and suddenly as impregnable as Springer MacDowell's.
"But I still need to go home, Line," she reminded him.
"No problem... I'll run you home," he said expansively, his eyes glistening in anticipation.
She shook her head. "No, thank you, anyway. I only live a few blocks away, and I'd rather walk."
"But-"
"Better take no for an answer, Line," Peter broke in easily. "I've learned that when Jessica makes up her mind there's no changing it."
A sullen expression deepened the flushed face of the businessman opposite her. "Then you'll have to dance with me to make up for it," he said, the sulky tone holding just a trace of a threat.
For just one moment she considered refusing. No one was going to threaten her, no one was going to order her around. She raised her head to sweetly tell him no when she saw Springer watching her, that cynical look on his dark face. "I'd love to," she said abruptly. "Just one, though."
Line practically leaped out of his seat, his hamlike hand heavy on her thin arm. So intent was he on getting her out on the postage-stamp-sized dance floor that he was oblivious as they passed Springer and Elyssa MacDowell. Jessica flashed him a small, sweet smile as she passed, telling him quite effectively to go to hell. Springer returned the smile and leaned back in his chair, that delectable mouth of his curving in malicious enjoyment. And then he was out of sight, hidden as Line yanked her against his bulky frame, and all Jessica could do was savor the memory of his initial anger.
Chapter Ten
The band was playing a sophisticated blues, something slow and just slightly defiant. It suited Jessica's mood perfectly as she allowed Lincoln to press his large frame against hers. She could only be glad he'd pushed her head against his shoulder, out of the line of fire from his Scotch-laden breath. She refused to think about why she hated Scotch. She knew full well, but it made life a great deal easier simply to accept her dislike without delving into its reasons.
His light wool suit was scratchy against her skin, and her legs were pressed so tightly against his that she could barely move. He had taken advantage of the darkness of the dance floor to breathe heavily in her small, delicate ear. She accepted with stoic forebearance when he decided slobbering with his tongue might excite her, she accepted with irritation the steady jarring of his pelvis against hers. He obviously wanted to make certain she knew how aroused he was and perhaps hoped that pressure of hardened flesh would in turn arouse her. He was in for a disappointment, she thought to herself, sighing.
Lincoln took that sigh for a sound of excitement, and he began to slobber across her cheekbone. She could smell the Scotch, but grimly she withstood the fear. She was safe, surrounded by people, nothing could happen to her. The revulsion was beginning to wash over her, combined with a sudden panic that she might push him away and destroy everything she'd worked for.
He'd taken
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